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Antoin’s voice comes from the doorway.
“The thought of all the sweet, sweet things I’m going to do to this prick.”
“Yeah, about that.”
I turn to face my second-in-command. Sharp suit, shiny shoes too much fucking aftershave. He’s looking real out of place among the flaking walls and stench of old blood. Me, on the other hand, I’m dressed to get down and dirty in old Levi’s and a sweater.
“Don’t bother, Antoin,” I growl, heading to the prep bar. It’s what I like to call the small table against the wall in the Observatory. It has a lockbox for my watch, keys, and wallet. My toolbox sits next to it with a box of rubber gloves. “I’m going in.”
His voice is strained. “At least hear me out.”
My silence permits him to keep talking. “I know you want to bash the fucker’s head in. Trust me, I do too. But wereallyneed Maxim alive. He’s the only person that will one-hundred-percent know where his father is.”
“Give me a pair of tweezers and fifteen seconds. I’ll get it out of him.”
“You know Viktor Bratnov didn’t wake up.”
“Who?”
Antoin’s sharp intake of breath irritates me. But I’m saving my energy for Maxim.
“Bratnov’s youngest son. You bashed his head against the pillar you’d tied him to and he never woke up. We can’t risk you doing that to Maxim. He’s too valuable.”
“Are you saying I have no self-control?” I retort icily, snapping on a pair of gloves.
“I’m saying your temper is too short and your trigger finger is too fast.”
My eyes travel back through the glass and I let out a loud sigh. I hate that Antoin has a good point. I know I’ll go in there and the second he spits at me I’ll put a bullet through his head. And besides, my head is only half in the game.
Damn it, China Doll.
“Go home. I got this, I promise.”
“Fine,” I grumble, snapping off my gloves as fast as I put them on and slip my Audemars back on my wrist. “Keep me updated.”
Without waiting for confirmation, I push past him and stalk down the dimly lit corridors in the direction of daylight.
I know exactly where I’m headed. ‘Cause Poppy is a bright fucking flame, and I’m nothing but a pathetic moth that can’t stay away.
Poppy
What’s the expression, again?
Something about doing the same thing and expecting different results. Something about insanity.
I need to stop doing the same thing: dreaming of escape and then letting all thoughts of it dissolve away the second Lorcan’s nice to me. Because the second he shows his true colors again, I’m back to square one. Dreaming of escape.
I’m curled up on the window seat, pressing my head against the glass and listening to the rain. Despite the rhythmic pitter-patter, not even the greatest storm of all time would drown out Cillian’s words.You need to get out of here.
Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. Now if only I could teleport myself out of this Museum, past the hundred or so armed guards and over the fifty-foot hedge, that’d be great. I stare out at the towering hedge walls of the garden and rack my brain. Maybe I could ask Cillian to leave me out a ladder, conveniently propped up against the bush. Maybe he could also leave a ladder on the other side too. So, you know, I don’t break my legs or anything.
I slam my head against the glass in frustration, a little too hard.
This isuseless.
My head is still throbbing when there’s a knock on the door. “Come in,” I sigh, still staring out the window.
When the door creaks open and the chirpy conversation doesn’t immediately start, I know it’s not Orna.
